by Joseph Flynn
“You now have my full attention, Madam President.”
“Thank you.” Patti took a moment to cock an ear in the direction of Nick and his acolytes. She continued in a soft voice. “I got some disturbing news this morning.”
McGill made do with an inquisitive look.
“Galia called to let me know that Chief Justice Calendri and Associate Justice Hawkins were found dead.”
“Foul play?” No assassinations, please God, he thought.
Patti shook her head and described the current medical assumptions as to the causes of death.
McGill shook his head in wonder. “That’s still awful.”
“Almost poetic, though, two men who worked so closely together dying together.”
“Neither of them was your favorite member of the court,” McGill said.
“No they weren’t, though Calendri was starting to change, become less the ideologue. It would have been interesting to see if Hawkins had followed.”
McGill couldn’t begin to guess about that, but he knew something else.
“You’re going to have an unprecedented opportunity, filling two Supreme Court vacancies at the same time.”
Patti sighed and for the first time that morning she looked like she was still on the mend rather than fully recovered.
“You’re forgetting,” she told McGill, “that I’m not the person at the controls in the Oval Office at the moment.”
McGill stopped dead in his tracks, bringing Patti to a halt, too.
From behind them, Nick called out, “Is everything all right?”
McGill held out a hand to keep the medical team from rushing forward.
“We’re fine, Nick. Just discussing something.”
“Are you telling me,” McGill asked, “that Mather Wyman might try to make two nominations to the Supreme Court as acting president? Or even one, for that matter.”
Patti said, “I’m telling you, he could, and the only way I could stop him would be to resume office, let’s say, today.”
She gave McGill a tug and they continued with their walk.
He said, “You could pass the word through the attorney general that any judge who accepted a Wyman nomination might find himself or herself in the embarrassing position of having that nomination withdrawn when you resume office.”
Patti laughed. “That’s just what Galia said. The two of you are starting to think alike.”
There was a time that would have bothered McGill. Not so much anymore.
“Maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” McGill said. “I got ticked off at Mather because he sided with Celsus on subverting Deke and Leo. Before that, I always thought he was completely respectful of you.”
Patti said, “He was, but he’d never sat behind my desk before. He was right to shut down Burke Godfrey’s teapot rebellion fast, but his idea of charging Godfrey with treason was going a step too far. I didn’t say anything because he was so new in the job and, really, there was nothing I could have done about it, short of returning. He called me to say he and Michael Jaworsky had thought better of it, but I could tell he felt embarrassed.”
McGill thought he saw another concern in his wife’s eyes.
“There’s something else?”
“Celsus told me the CIA was being … unforthcoming about the service records of the two former covert operatives who escaped with Damon Todd. I told him to take his concerns to Mather. He said he had and was told the matter had been taken under advisement.”
McGill laughed. “Celsus must have loved that.”
“Not one bit. That’s why he called me.”
“Going over the acting president’s head,” McGill said.
“Yes.”
“And?”
Patti said, “And I called the director of national intelligence and told him I wanted full copies of those men’s records delivered to SAC Crogher immediately. He promised to do so … but if he called Mather to confirm that order things could get complicated. The country is not supposed to have two presidents at the same time.”
“How soon do we find out who prevailed?” McGill asked.
“Galia is supposed to be on the helicopter due here this evening. Then we’ll know.”
“And if Mather is thinking of nominating a justice or two?”
Patti said, “Then I go back to work, ready or not.”
Rock Creek Park — Washington, D.C.
White House Deputy Chief of Staff Stephen Norwood, wearing a Saint Louis Cardinals baseball cap, sunglasses, a polo shirt, jeans and sneakers, walked along a path in the park with Jean Wayburn, the chief political reporter for the online edition of the Washington Post.
Jean, also casually dressed, was a whip smart alumna of Vanderbilt. She had a sweet Tennessee accent that came and went with her mood and the company she was keeping.
She was laying it on thick with Stephen Norwood, a graduate of Washington University in Saint Louis, another elite non-Ivy.
“So what’s the scoop, Steve,” Jean asked, “and why tell me now if you don’t want me to write about it?”
Norwood had mentioned an embargo date to her.
He said, “I’m running a test for the campaign I’m going to head. I want to see who we can trust in the media.”
Jean’s stride faltered. Norwood looked over his shoulder and smiled.
“Come on, Jean. You don’t burn any calories standing still.”
She didn’t need to lose an ounce, but she hurried to catch up.
“You’re telling me you’re going to be Patti Grant’s campaign manager?”
“I am.”
“And by telling me this you’re testing me?” Jean asked.
“I want to see if you’ll honor the embargo date.”
“What is the date?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Jean gave him a sidelong look.
“How’s Andrea?” she asked.
“Mrs. Norwood is doing quite well, thank you.”
“The two of you are still happy?”
“Blissful.”
“No chance in the world you’d ever —”
“None. You should really —”
“You can’t blame a girl for trying. You were the last sweet, good-looking guy God made.”
“I seriously doubt that. So? You want to know what we’re up to?”
“You and Patti Grant?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll be good. Tell me.”
“The president is going to run for reelection as an independent and put a billion dollars of her own money into the campaign. I think that’s far more money than she’ll need. Given the magnitude of her star-power, she —”
Norwood had lost Jean Wayburn again. She ran to catch up.
He was a happily married man, but he thought Jean looked quite fetching with a light sheen of sweat on her brow and her eyes sparkling.
“You better not be playing me, Stephen.”
He was, of course. He was counting on Jean. Oh, she wouldn’t publish the story. For one thing, she’d never find a second source for it, but Norwood and Galia Mindel would be grievously disappointed if the rumor of Patti Grant running as a self-funded independent candidate for president wasn’t circulating far and wide through official Washington before the sun went down.
Galia thought the president’s health problem might be causing doubts among the Democrats as to putting Patti Grant at the head of their ticket. The chief of staff wanted to make the Dems wet-their-pants anxious that they were about to blow their chance to recapture the White House. Neither Galia nor Norwood doubted they’d last forty-eight hours before making their entreaties to the president.
As for playing Jean, Norwood would make sure he found some special — platonic — way to make amends. He started by buying her a hot dog and a soft drink.
Mango Mary’s — Key West, Florida
Jackie Richmond was working behind the bar when the woman came into the place and asked for a sparkling water wit
h a slice of lime. Jackie had told Alice if he was going to keep living free at her house, he had to earn his keep.
He’d been tending bar for a month now and felt at ease doing the work.
Read the paper when nobody needed his attention.
The woman had taken the stool right in front of him during a lull in business. No one else in the joint. She could have sat anywhere she wanted and let him do the walking, but she hadn’t.
Her light brown hair was streaked with blonde highlights that came from the sun not a bottle. She had bright blue eyes. She wore a butter yellow polo shirt and khaki shorts. Had an even tan and looked like she might have played sports in college. But that had been a while ago. She had little crow’s feet at the corners of her baby blues. Didn’t act like that bothered her at all.
He served her drink and asked, “ Would you like to run a tab?”
She shook her head, paid cash, tipped him a buck.
Sat there and sipped her fizzy water and zoned out.
Jackie went back to reading his newspaper not five feet away. The best pick up technique in the world, he knew, was to be polite, safe and available. The worst was to be aggressive, self-important and wear gold anywhere you had body hair. Jackie, whose work required that he avoid notice and pay attention to the world around him, always went for subtlety.
He stayed alert to his surroundings by reading the Key West Citizen and the Miami Herald every day. He didn’t think he’d find any headlines saying Cops About to Drop Net Over Linley Boland. But he might see something along the lines of Man Wanted for Questioning in Naples Deaths Thought to Be in Keys. That would be his cue to —
Take a good look at the punk walking through the front door. Face tight with anger. Gold chain around his neck diving into chest hair that might have required a weed whacker for grooming. No gun or knife in hand, but fingers half-curled on their way to forming fists.
He was heading straight for Jackie and, incidentally, the woman at the bar.
The guy didn’t believe in introductions.
He just snarled at Jackie, “Hey, dickwad, where’s the owner?”
The asshole was right behind the woman at the bar now. She turned to see who was breathing down her neck. She was none too pleased with what she saw.
The prick took notice of her, and Jackie’s hand went under the bar.
“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he shoved the stool on which the woman sat aside with his leg.
“Hey!” she yelled.
The asshole pointed a finger at her as if to tell her to shut up and he —
Didn’t get the first word out of his mouth. The woman grabbed his extended finger, sprang to her feet, bent the finger back so far she bounced the back of the jerk’s head off the bar. Jackie caught him on the rebound with a forehand to the forehead. His blunt object of choice was a bottle of Seagram’s V.O.
The guy somehow managed to keep his feet, but had lost all his hostility.
He staggered backward, toward the door.
Jackie offered the Seagram’s bottle to the woman.
“Maybe he needs one for the road.”
A clout on the head, he meant.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
As the prick neared the open doorway, he tried to turn and face the world head on. Instead, he tripped and did a face-plant on the sidewalk. Jackie tucked the Seagram’s bottle out of sight. The woman returned her bar stool to its proper place. She received a fresh drink on the house.
Extending his hand to her, Jackie Richmond introduced himself.
Taking it, the woman said, “Carina Linberg.”
When the cops showed up a few minutes later, both of them disclaimed any knowledge of the man on the sidewalk. The cops didn’t push them. Someone falling down in public — drunk, stoned or stroked out — wasn’t anything new in Key West.
They just hauled the guy off like they were collecting trash.
The Rose Garden — The White House
Acting President Mather Wyman ambled slowly along one side of the garden’s central lawn. Walking with him was his niece Kira Fahey Yates. Wyman had been dismayed when Kira had returned from her honeymoon in Spain only a few days after she’d left. But when she’d told him that she and Welborn had seen the news of the assault on Salvation’s Path and felt compelled to return and see if they might be of help, he’d never felt more proud of her.
She’d followed that by saying, “Mattie, I’ll always be close by when you need me.”
Kira made him smile, as she so often did.
The two of them came to a cast iron bench originally installed at the direction of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Wyman and Kira sat on it and he took his niece’s hand. With a wry note in his voice, he told her, “I was talking with Russell George today.”
“Who’s he?” Kira asked.
“The librarian of Congress.”
“Time to renew your card?”
Wyman grinned.
“No, I asked if he might search his collection to see if there was any book of etiquette that applied to a sitting president and the fellow keeping her seat warm. I’m sad to say no such volume exists. Without any formal guidance, I find myself at a bit of a loss these days.”
Kira knew the time for wisecracks was over.
“It’s none of my business, Mattie, but are you and the president having any problems?”
“It’s more a matter of … the two of us are exploring uncharted waters and we might have run aground. I’m afraid I put a foot wrong by failing to understand the dynamic between James J. McGill and the Secret Service. SAC Crogher came to me and said Mr. McGill was at an increased risk of —”
“Being killed?” Kira asked.
“Imminent mortality, I believe, was the way he put it. He asked for permission to demand that Mr. McGill accept increased protection. I thought I couldn’t be responsible for the president losing a second husband and told Crogher to do whatever he thought necessary. It didn’t take long for me to receive an indirect rebuke from Mr. McGill and hear that he had discharged all of his protective detail. He said he didn’t work for me and wasn’t subject to my wishes.”
Kira winced.
“It’s hardly your fault, my dear.”
“No, but I could have told you about Jim McGill and Celsus Crogher.”
“How could you have done that?”
“Welborn and Deke Ky are friends. They talk. So do Welborn and I.”
The acting president frowned.
“What?” Kira asked.
“It’s not my place to come between a husband and wife,” Wyman said, “but I hope you can keep our discussions private.”
Kira smiled. “Of course, I can. Welborn speaks privately with his mother.”
The acting president nodded. “An equitable privilege then. The situation with Mr. McGill was only the first difficulty. There’s been a matter of national intelligence. I won’t go into detail but I was considering what to do when I heard the president had already made a decision. I acquiesced because it would have been foolish not to do so. Now, there are, well, two more things.”
“More secret stuff?” Kira asked.
“Yes and no. The secret is only a political matter so I can share that with you. I’m told the GOP, or at least some people in it, want to draft me as their nominee to run for president.”
Kira’s eyes got big. “Oh, Mattie, you’d make a great president!”
“You’re not happy with the one we have?”
That poked a pin in Kira’s balloon.
“Well, yes, of course, I am. I think the president has done a great job … all things considered. She would have gotten more done if … if her own party had gone along with her.”
“Her former party,” Wyman reminded his niece. “If I were to become the Republican nominee, I’d be running against my boss.”
Kira thought about that. “Then I think it would be the first no-lose presidential election ever, but I think you
could get the GOP to go along with you more often than Patricia Grant was able to do.”
Wyman chuckled. “I don’t know about that, but here’s the other thing: A bright, ambitious fellow who undoubtedly has a long list of favors I might do for him has suggested that, in light of the tragic deaths of Alberto Calendri and Titus Hawkins, I draw up my list of candidates for the Supreme Court.”
Now, Kira took her uncle’s hand. “You think the president would let you do that?”
“Submit my choices to the Senate for confirmation? No. I could, however, let it become known who my choices would be if I were president. Who knows, if I were elected president, another seat on the court might come open. By simply composing a list, however, I’d show what my inclinations as president would be.”
“Mattie, you are the president. For the moment anyway. I think you have no choice but to be prepared. It would be irresponsible not to start the process.”
Wyman smiled. “Is there anyone you have your eye on?”
“Only Welborn and he wouldn’t look good in a black robe.”
“I’ll take your word on that. You are a great comfort to me, Kira.”
“I love you, Mattie.” She kissed his cheek and stood. She told him, “Now, think some deep presidential thoughts and you’ll know just what to do.”
Easier said than done, Wyman thought as he watched Kira go.
He still had a secret he hadn’t told anyone except Zachary Garner and Patti Grant. He’d revealed to them that he was a gay man. Zack had taken the news to the grave with him. But Wyman had told the president he intended to run for a House seat from Ohio as an openly gay man; he’d even asked for and received permission from the president to make his coming out statement while he was acting president.
She might be wondering why he hadn’t done so already.
The immediate crush of business had kept him too busy to think about something that in the grand scheme of things was not so terribly important. Doing a good job for the country was what mattered. But having learned the GOP might draft him as their presidential nominee brought the matter back with a bang.
Running for a House seat as an openly gay man was one thing.
Doing it while running for the White House was quite another.
